Home is Where the Heart Aches
by beesandbrews
Summary: Sherlock figured he'd sweep John into a new adventure and the excitement would make it possible to push the messy and uncomfortable emotional aspects of their reunion under the rug. Things didn't quite go to plan. A post-return story. Contains spoilers for 'The Reichenbach Fall'.


In retrospect it seems obvious, but the cemetery is the last place Sherlock looks. It's late by the time he thinks to look there, and the gates have long been shut and locked for the night. It's quiet, and very still. The moon hangs low, illuminating the gravestones with blue-white light.

John must have come directly from Scotland Yard. The post-arrest interview process would have given him time to come down off the adrenaline rush and begin to process all that had happened before the arrival of Lestrade and his team. He's still dressed in the dark clothes he'd worn earlier – black jeans and jumper under a close-fitting jacket with leather patches on the shoulders – clothes Sherlock had insisted upon because they needed to engage in a spot of housebreaking in order to apprehend the last of James Moriarty's trusted lieutenants.

Then, John had followed orders without question, too stunned to do otherwise. Given the way he's pacing to and fro, raising his hand from time to time as he rails inarticulately at the graveside, it's unlikely he's still in the same passive state of mind. He comes to rest in front of the plain granite headstone and begins to methodically shred the bouquet of roses clutched in his right hand, littering the ground at his feet with blood red petals pulled from what appears to be a dozen blossoms.

Sherlock sighs at both the man and the stone as he tries to decide what to do next. He had instructed Mycroft specifically about the appearance of the marker. It had been a message to John – a single, apparently overlooked clue – that the suicide was a hoax. Why else would there be no date to commemorate the passing of the world's most notorious consulting detective?

Has John finally realised the importance of the engraving, Sherlock wonders as he watches the outpouring of painful emotion. Is he berating himself for missing the obvious?

Red roses are the flowers of love, Sherlock recalls belatedly. The meaning of their destruction takes on an uncomfortable new significance. John might be angry at himself, but he's far more angry at Sherlock for not finding a means to guide him to the correct conclusion.

John makes a impotent sound of rage as he casts away the naked stems, hurtling them hard enough against the headstone that they clatter dully before they fall. It's a stark release of pent up emotion; emotions Sherlock had hoped John would unleash against their adversaries as they ended Moriarty's gang once and for all, leaving nothing but forgiveness in his heart for his long lost, and much mourned, comrade at arms.

Unfortunately, it seems his plan has not worked as intended. The adventure hadn't resulted in catharsis. If anything the delay has made matters worse than before; the long and dangerous evening has left John emotionally raw. He leans over, hands on his knees, breathing heavily and then sways as if he's about to faint. Sherlock rushes forward without thinking. He's met with a surprised look that becomes a hard glare.

"Are you all right?"

"What are you doing here?"

They speak over one another. They regard each other warily as Sherlock advances. He can see a fine sheen of sweat on John's brow, despite the chilliness of the crisp night air. He can see the heightened colour in his cheeks, and the way the muscles in his jaw are trembling. The pulse above John's collar throbs dangerously.

"You left before I'd finished with Lestrade," Sherlock says casually. His palms are sweating. He wipes them against his coat and can't decided whether or not it's something he wants John to notice. "I was hoping we could talk."

"What can you possibly say that will make this better?" John asks coldly. He holds up a hand. "You know what? Don't even bother to try." He turns away and starts to walk off. His back is painfully straight and his gait is stiff, as if the old psychosomatic limp has returned, and he is fighting not to let it show. It's telling that his fingers are clenching into fists and then deliberately being straightened again. It's obvious he's angry, and barely keeping his temper in check. It seems John's respect for the dead is the only thing preventing him from lashing out, tearing into Sherlock as he had the roses.

Sherlock tries something desperate. He's unwilling to let John go after such an unsatisfactory reunion. "You once told me, after you'd been shot and you believed yourself to be dying, that your last thought was a prayer. 'Please God, don't let me die.' Do you want to know what I was thinking as I went off the roof?"

John pauses. He turns around, and for a moment it seems as if he's going to speak before he shakes his head and turns away again, veering around a praying angel before he retakes the main pathway.

Sherlock musters his courage and jogs to catch up. What he's about to say isn't the sort of thing he cares to admit, not even to himself. "It was, 'Please God, grant John the strength to understand'."

John flinches but he doesn't stop walking. Sherlock follows from a distance. The trail of scuffed gravel leads to a maintenance hut and the access road that's off limits to the public. There's a pair of bolt cutters, with a ten pound note clamped between the jaws, propped next to the severed chain hanging from the gate.

John has vanished.

* * *

Someone prods him. Sherlock opens his eyes. He'd fallen asleep on Mrs Hudson's sofa. It was that or sleep rough after Mycroft had thrown him out, and he'd had enough rough living for a lifetime. John is standing above him, flat-lipped and obviously still angry.

"There were reporters banging on my door this morning wanting to know how I felt about Sherlock Holmes remarkable resurrection from the dead."

Sherlock blinks sleep from his eyes and swallows around a tongue that feels as if something small and furry has died upon it. He'd drunk far too much after his return from the cemetery. "What did you tell them?"

"What could I tell them?" John asks sharply.

"That if given half a chance, you'd kill me yourself, just so you knew the job had been done properly?" Sherlock suggests, hoping his attempt at levity will bridge a gap that his previous strategies had failed to span.

He struggles to sit upright. The room spins giddily so he leans over his knees instead. John doesn't rush to his assistance, which is an acute disappointment. It would have been nice to feel John's palm rubbing slow and soothing circles over his sleep-stiffened muscles. When Sherlock looks up, John has his hands crossed over his chest and he's frowning.

"What's the matter with you?"

The list of symptoms is long, but can be summed up in one word, if only he could remember what it was. Sherlock reaches for his cigarettes and lights up. He regrets the action almost instantly and stubs the cigarette out in a sardine tin Mrs Hudson had improvised to keep him from abusing her floors and crockery.

"Hangover," he recalls at last, and then explains why he'd poisoned himself with alcohol instead of his preferred solution of cocaine. "The police have move my usual sources on."

John looks at him with abject disappointment. Sherlock considers and decides that disappointment is an improvement over contempt, and much better than indifference. At least that means John still cares. He starts to get to his feet. There's no gun in John's jacket pocket this morning. If he's not about to be murdered then he needs a glass of water and some aspirin.

"Sit down."

John pushes Sherlock back onto the sofa. Gravity takes another holiday. Sherlock clings to the cushions for dear life and then reaches frantically for the bin Mrs Hudson has so thoughtfully provided. He wretches painfully. His ribs ache when he is through. John sighs and takes the bin away. As Sherlock fades out of consciousness, he hears the murmur of voices in the other room. Mrs Hudson, bless her, has decided to intervene on his behalf.

When he wakes up for the second time, John is sitting across from him. He's drinking coffee and the scent of it drives Sherlock slightly mad. "Please?" He coughs and then tries again and his voice is a little stronger. "Please." He sits up and then holds out his hand.

John gives him a mug of water and two aspirin instead. "Take these first."

Gratefully, Sherlock complies. "Thank you." He sips from the cup slowly, letting the tepid water rehydrate his tongue. "That's much better."

John gestures for the mug. Sherlock hands it over and John fills it with coffee and then adds two spoons of sugar. "Mrs Hudson told me quite a story while you were sleeping."

Sherlock sips at the cup. It's an illogical thing, but his coffee always tastes better when John fixes it. "Did she?" he replies neutrally.

Upon his return to London, Baker Street had been his first port of call, even before he'd presented himself to Mycroft. Mrs H had stared for a long moment and then called him a 'naughty boy' for pulling such a wicked prank, and hugged him until there was no breath left in his body. Upon reflection, that was rather the sort of greeting Sherlock had hoped he'd get from John; it would have been far better than the brittle cautiousness with which he is currently being regarded.

"Mmm," John says in the same slightly incredulous tone. "All about how Moriarty put a contract out on our lives. One that only he could call off."

The memory hits Sherlock as vividly as a waking dream. Without warning he is on the roof at Barts, watching horrified as Moriarty holds the gun to his own head, beatific as he pulls the trigger.

Sherlock gazes intently at John, willing him to understand. "I'm sorry for what I did to you, but he left me no choice. Once Moriarty was gone events were set into motion."

John rakes his gaze over Sherlock. His jaw works as if he's biting back a string of retorts. Finally he asks, "Where were you? All this time? Where were you?"

If they still put stickers on suitcases, Sherlock thinks as he smiles thinly, his would be a multi-coloured collage. He contemplates the borders he's crossed, nearly all of which were done without the benefit of a passport or other authorised credentials. Mycroft had eased his way on occasion, but mostly he'd had to make do with sheer nerve. "Tracing Moriarty's network," Sherlock says as he reaches for his cigarettes again. "He had a number of employees that were key to his operation, the last and most slippery of which we apprehended last night."

The jolt of nicotine hits his bloodstream. It's much more pleasant than the memories of dark nights and even darker deeds as he'd torn apart Moriarty's felonious operation with his bare hands, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake that left some police officers sleeping easier whilst others struggled with their unsolved statistics.

"So what will you do now?" John asks softly. There's no anger left in his voice, just a mute acknowledgement that what has transpired was bigger than them both. Sherlock feels an intense sense of relief. It means someday, soon perhaps, forgiveness will follow.

He contemplates John's question. It's something he's been asking himself since he got off the ferry and then hitch-hiked his way back to London. He's accomplished the first part, taking out Colonel Sebastian Moran, but that was easy, comparatively speaking. It's the next bits that will be tricky.

He runs his free hand through his hair to smooth the unruly curls and shrugs. "I'm not sure, I've never come back from the dead before. I'm thinking there will be paperwork to fill out."

Sherlock smiles at John and John tentatively smiles back with a spark of his old humour. Their smiles fade as they both realise the mountain of bureaucracies waiting to be scaled. Even if Mycroft intervenes, it could take months. Sherlock takes a drag off of his cigarette and turns his head to blow the smoke away.

"And then I'll need money," he says contemplatively. He'd left John the cash in their account. At London prices, even if John was careful, the fund would be nearly exhausted. "Which means throwing myself on my brother's mercy until I can find some new clients."

Sherlock looks up again and tries not to get his hopes up as he works his way around to the issue he wants to raise most. "At least I have a place to stay. Mrs Hudson has agreed to let me move in. She's said she'll wave the rent until I get onto my feet." He draws on his cigarette before glancing over casually at John. "I've decided I prefer a flat-share. Do you know anybody that might be interested? Preferably someone who might be willing to do a little PR work, maybe even run a blog for a disgraced consulting detective?"

The look on John's face is telling. It's patently obvious he's conflicted. Sherlock smokes in silence as John argues with himself. "I'll let you know." He puts his coffee cup aside, says a few quiet words to Mrs Hudson, and lets himself out.

* * *

The flat's a tip. Not the organised sort where Sherlock can put his hand to anything he chooses because he has a system, but the bog standard kind caused by the chaos of deliverymen leaving tea chests and packing cases where ever there's free space. It's been three days since he's seen or heard from John. Sherlock had sent a text, a thank you for John's kindness and help dealing with his hangover, but there has been no reply.

As soon as he'd felt fit enough to stand without pitching over, Sherlock had returned to the cemetery. There, he had learned from the ground's keeper that John visited on a regular basis, often with a bouquet in hand. Usually the bouquet contained red roses at its heart. The shredded blooms had definitely been a message.

As Sherlock watched dead petals scatter on the wind, he had wondered if it would be better to let John pass out of his life gracefully or put up a fight and demand a chance to explain himself. Neither option seemed particularly appealing, and he'd left the cemetery with a heavy heart and the certainty that despite his death, Moriarty had still won their final match.

Contemplating his life without John in it is an infinitely depressing line of thought. Sherlock sighs and tries to focus on the vapid stream of words coming out of the newsreader's mouth as he decides to put the decision off for another twenty-four hours.

Mrs Hudson taps on the door frame. "I've brought you a visitor, dear."

Sherlock doesn't bother to glance up from the television. He hasn't bothered to do much of anything since he woke up, not even wash or dress. The international news ends and the local crime report begins. Since his return he's solved three open cases – based off of evidence the police have released to the media – and if he can get a look at the autopsy results in the latest sensationalised killing, he's pretty sure he can raise his total to four. He wonders if Molly will give him the information he needs, and then he, in turn, can use the 'so called' baffling murders as his ticket to get back into Scotland Yard's good graces.

"Tell them to go away. I'm busy," he shouts.

"I heard you were looking for a flatmate," a familiar, and very welcome, voice says despite Sherlock's objection.

Sherlock shuts off the television, the news and the murder instantly forgotten. "I am." He springs to his feet and self-consciously straightens the lines of his dressing gown. "I play the violin when I'm thinking, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," he says, echoing their first meeting.

John is standing in the doorway. He's holding a battered valise in one hand, and has an army issued duffel-bag hanging over his right shoulder. Unless something has changed in Sherlock's absence, add the footlocker waiting downstairs in the hallway, and John has brought all of his worldly possessions. He glances around the room, taking in the disarrayed state and shrugs. "It could be nice, as soon as we get this rubbish cleaned up."

"I've been a bit preoccupied," Sherlock admits. "But I'm sure I could straighten things up."

John nods. "Let me take this stuff upstairs, and I'll give you a hand." He shifts his bags and it's obvious there's something weighing heavily on his mind. He smiles self-consciously and looks up. "Sherlock, I'm glad you're home."

It's not a passionate kiss. It's not a sock on the jaw. But it's a start. Sherlock smiles back at John and nods. "As am I," he says as he reaches for John's valise.


End file.
